


Down By The Waterside

by Jenwryn



Category: Legend of the Seeker
Genre: Episode Related s02e16 Desecrated, F/F, F/M, First Time, Rada'Han
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-07-05
Updated: 2010-07-05
Packaged: 2017-10-23 03:38:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 646
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/245895
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jenwryn/pseuds/Jenwryn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>To know – to have heard it, with her very own ears – to know, that Cara cares for her.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Down By The Waterside

**Author's Note:**

> Title comes from [Evening On The Ground (Lilith's Song)](http://youtu.be/jJ3Y2tt3kGA), by Iron & Wine, which sort of instigated this piece.
> 
> Written after watching 2.16, Desecrated.

The air should feel thinner, but somehow it doesn't. To know – to have heard it, with her very own ears – to know, that Cara cares for her. To know, and Kahlan can feel the thrill of it ring through her like a bell, like the oxygen she's lacking. It cleaves to her, when they fight; when they fall; when Cara's fingers meet hers, their hands entwined in the face of death, and defeat, and the Keeper (not so bad, to go together; to face him in harmony).

The knowledge stays bound to her soul, after Richard has saved them, after the air has returned. Kahlan kisses Richard hard, to try and express it in the only way she can; hugs Zedd close to her and grinning, because the knowledge has caught her unawares even as it's knitting through her bones.

Kahlan understands Cara's need to pretend that the Mord Sith is made of iron, of course.

She doesn't say a word, out of respect.

But Richard knows her far too well; knows the both of them far too well. And Kahlan might not be the Seeker, but she is the Mother Confessor, and she is a woman who loves him: she can see the way he looks at them; can see the content amusement that lurks, in the satisfied creases by his eyes, when he grins. Kahlan can't help but grin back – Richard will chuckle, and Cara will roll her eyes, or purse her lips, or huff; sometimes the blonde will simply hum, “Mm,” in that way of hers, and Richard's muffled joy tells Kahlan that he knows what his Confessor kind of wants to do to the Mord Sith's petulant lips.

Richards knows well enough to keep his indulgent amusement to himself, however, and Kahlan does the same with her tempted hands. She sometimes thinks, though, that Cara's gaze lingers more openly now; that it takes in Seeker and Confessor alike.

One night Cara pins a dark-haired barmaid to a wall, hips and breasts and leather, and Kahlan moans into Richard's mouth.

It's almost by accident that they find the Rada'Han. Cara studies it with undisguised curiosity, and Richard clears his throat so often that Zedd actually offers to make him a potion against colds, before declaring a pressing need to leave them for a day or two ( _visit a village to the north,_ he says, and his eyes are knowing). The next inn is cramped, and nobody says anything when they take a room together; nobody says anything, either, when the door is closed behind them and Kahlan slides the metal against her neck.

Richard sits on the edge of the bed and begins to unlace his boots.

It's Cara who makes the first noise. Curious, indignant, expectant. Her emotions are concealed by the directness of her gaze, but Kahlan reads beneath. Kahlan pulls the Mord Sith to her; nothing gentle, never gentle, not yet, not when Cara is still carrying doubt in her shoulder-blades. Cara moans beneath Kahlan's bites; spins the pair of them, and pushes Kahlan to the bed. Richard pulls his shirt over his head, slaps Cara's arse, and leans in to suck at Kahlan's neck. Kahlan appreciates that nobody asks permission. That they all know what they want. That they were always going to fuck each other. Richard's mouth is warm on her own. Cara's nipples make her stomach coil. Richard's hand, against Cara's hip, make Cara's fingers slide all the easier between Kahlan's legs.

They fit, the three of them, somehow, always, as though they'd been knocking elbows and noses and breasts and knees forever. Life and feeling throb as equally as blood does, hot and delightful, until Kahlan has to gasp for breath, has to arch her body, has to moan to find the oxygen to lace her lungs.

The air should feel thinner, but somehow it doesn't.


End file.
